A Spill of Blood Ch. 03

We sat in silence. She took a sip from a glass of white. I matched it with one of rye. She was quiet because the fears were back. I was quiet because my head was bursting.

Taking a pee hadn't cleared my brain. I was full to the eyeballs with chemicals that wasn't leaching out. I'd killed someone once before, but you don't get used to it. Or if you do, then you're a Mitchell and maybe deserve a little killing yourself. It would be worse in the morning; I knew that. Right now, it was a roiling tide of a dead redhead, a corrupt cop, bullets that barely missed, and a tender head and cracked bones that needed some payback.

Mix in the frustration at not being able to find any nugget of information that actually moved me anywhere. Throw in a sad woman whose friend had been murdered and who wanted some reassurance she wasn't next. I wasn't immune to a pretty face in distress, to the body that seemed to lounge back against the cushion, yet held the tension of a coiled spring. The silk robe had parted to show the leg again—no higher than before but my imagination filled in the rest, and the view didn't get any less spectacular the second time around.

I looked away. Not out of guilt. I was single. Lexie and I were booty calls. Though, come to think of it, she wasn't getting shorted in that department, so maybe I was just a source of decent liquor to her. I'd sort that one out later. I was embarrassed to realize that another thing I wasn't immune to was hurt pride.

Sydney ... maybe she was really attracted to me, or maybe she was feeling alone. Or maybe she was just adding a tip over and above what she was paying me like men did for her, cementing where my priorities lay. Either way, there were no promises, spoken or unspoken, between us. Her last words made that clear.

No, I looked away because the same hormones that had flooded me in Sydney's apartment not long ago did other things in a man's body. And along with the leg, they noticed that the neck of her robe was looser and the hint of curves that teased the eye. But she'd let me up to her apartment on trust, the first person since things started.

I swirled the ice cube in my glass, took a sip. Rye was the solution, though I'd have to leave my car and take a cab.

I guess I'd never win a Tony.

"Is it curiosity?" she said softly.

"Huh," I responded.

"About Black women. You're not the awkward type, but you're acting awkward and you won't look at me."

I told the truth. "No. I'm curious about women, period. It's ..." I left the sentence hanging.

"Do you like what you see?"

There was a beseeching quality in her voice and I realized something. That vulnerable quality was back, that hope that she was desirable enough to be worth protecting. This was a woman who felt she had one worth in this world: her attractiveness to men.

"I think you're gorgeous."

The smile was like a hundred-watt bulb. "You're not so bad yourself."

"I'm pretty average."

She shook her head. "No. Maybe you don't look like Idris Elba, but most men are kind of soft. You're hard, Harry. Not hard like those guys at the party who don't care, hard like you're not going to let anything bad happen. When I first saw you, I knew it. And when you came back from Sydney's ... your eyes ..." She trailed off, staring at me.

I reached one hand toward hers, and she was in my arms, her lips against mine. Under that silk robe was a silk camisole and silk panties whose demure cream stood in stark contrast to the beautiful warmth of her skin. Under that silk camisole and those silk panties was only Nikki.

We did it right there on the couch, her leaning over the padded arm, hard and furious and brief. And then she drew me to my feet and into the bedroom that held a giant, four-poster bed. There she breathed, "You can have anything you want," and what I wanted was her riding so that I could watch the swaying breasts and look into the soft, brown eyes and hold the sweet curves of hips and ass as they moved.

I lay there after in the pile of wadded sheets while she slipped into the bathroom. For a second, I wondered what Larry Beck would think if he knew. Then I remembered that photo of him looking on at her with Anders, no doubt about what had been going on even if her back was to the camera. Maybe that was the kink Sydney had referred to.

"Do you have to go?" Nikki asked from the doorway.

I did, even if I didn't want to. Even if what I wanted to do was nap off some of the alcohol and then see if she was game for Round Three. But I needed to find out what Jess had learned. I needed to make sure that Sydney was safely at Jimmy's and get her clothes to her. I needed to figure out what to do about a body in Sydney's apartment.

"Yeah, as long as you won't take it as a hit and run."

"No. It doesn't feel like that, and honestly, I want this whole thing over before I fall apart completely."

I grinned. "Trust me. Your parts aren't falling off. I checked."

That got the weak grin it deserved. At least it was a grin.

"Seriously though," she said, "this is really getting to me. I'm sure the others too. Is Sydney okay? Where is she? I knocked a couple times, but there was no answer."

"She took a trip, went out of state for a bit." Secrets aren't secrets if everyone knows.

"Oh. I was hoping we could do popcorn and a movie and be nervous together."

I debated if this was the time to push, decided her mood wouldn't get any better than post-coital hormones.

"Nikki, I really need to talk to Larry. I'm not looking to interfere in your relationship with him. I'm not looking to jam him up." Not unless he's the guilty one, I thought. "But our only hope is that somebody saw something. Somebody beyond Emer— beyond Cara. Please help me."

She wasn't ready to agree, I could see that. The whale on the end of some stout fishing line was a powerful thing. But so was a possible two in the chest from a nine millimeter.

"I'll think and let you know."

I got my first nugget downstairs. I had it already, it just took a doorman's uniform to make me realize it.

How did that shooter get in?

I tried to confirm it. "Hey, William." I'd checked the nametag when I came in. That was fair; he'd demanded my name. "May I ask you a question?"

"Sir?"

"Does anyone ... anyone at all ... get upstairs without a tenant's approval?"

"Not really, sir. Tenants and building staff. Others have to be vouched for or they don't go beyond me." He answered that readily enough, but the eyes went from professionally friendly to alert.

"What does 'not really' mean?"

"Well, say a tenant has a significant other who doesn't live here, or maybe family. They can give them a permanent pass by coming down and filling out some paperwork."

"None of those in the last week or so, or any new building staff, were there?"

"Why don't you tell me why you're asking."

"If you have cameras on the upstairs corridors, it will show you the answer." The real reason for asking that, of course, was to know if there was video of me assisting in a suicide. I had two plans of attack based on the answer.

"No, sir. Building management feels that's an intrusion on tenants' privacy, recording who's going where upstairs. There are cameras at the entrance lobby and service entrance. Those are the only two ways in. So, again, maybe you'll tell me why the questions." Alert had gone to semi-unfriendly.

No cameras ... Plan B.

"You know who I visited." It wasn't a question, but he nodded.

"Someone knocked on her door today." Lying was as important as being able to stay awake on bad coffee in my business. "She freaked out and told me not to answer it. I have a hunch you know at least some of the explanation she gave me. I mean, she told me that you're accepting all her food deliveries because she's afraid to go out." I smiled my not-nice smile. "The thing is, William, I have a problem with people bothering my friends."

His examination lasted a long second. I was doing my own in return. I didn't see any guile in this guy. He was a totally different breed from Deke. He decided I didn't look like someone he needed to drag out with the recycling. I decided he didn't need to be slammed up against the marble with an arm across his throat.

"Miss Hill came to me some days ago and said she'd picked up a stalker who started making threats when she didn't respond to him."

Good story, Nikki.

"Since that time, there've been no new permanent passes and no new maintenance staff. The only visitors today have been people I know, other than you, of course. The service door hasn't opened—we get an alert here if that happens—and nobody, Mr. Morgan, nobody comes past this desk without us seeing. If I need to step away, one of the other staff is here. It's not just that I like my job. I have daughters. I take that shit seriously."

I nodded as if relieved. "Then I guess it was some neighbor wanting a cup of sugar. I'm glad you're watching, William."

As I stood on the street, the size of the nugget hit me. I believed William. For the rent this place charged, top-notch service was expected, including security. I had no doubt that William had gone to something more aggressive than Wear a Classy Uniform School.

But a bribe for someone to do the dirty work seemed unlikely. Your average building maintenance staff didn't have those skills with a gun. Those shots were on target if I hadn't jinked. Nor did they keep a Ruger Mark III with a silencer to deal with rats in the basement. So, somebody in the building got that guy in. If the service door hadn't opened today and nobody came past William he didn't know, then the guy was a regular or had been here overnight, waiting. That meant a tenant because I seriously doubted a guy camping out in the utility closet would go unnoticed.

The second implication struck. If the guy was here overnight, why hadn't he gone for Nikki? Emerald talked to her just like she talked to Sydney, and Sydney was a target.

Did Nikki let him in?

I didn't believe that. She was scared and looking for reassurance. No, the web of Jordan Regan's group somehow had a strand in that building. It was a strand that thought any threat from Nikki was contained. She wasn't leaving the building, while Sydney had come to me. Sydney could be killed; Nikki could be used as bait.

I needed a look at those entrance videos, but asking William would destroy the fiction of the baking neighbor.

There had been thirteen people at that party. One was dead. Two were clients, first and second. Another two, Sasha and Luiza, were accounted for every moment according to several people's stories. Those were the definites, insofar as anything was definite in this mess.

Next were the ones my gut was telling me about. Charlie Everett was surprised at the theft. Scratch him. Nikki hadn't been startled to see me come back upstairs alive. Scratch her. Jordan was genuinely worried about Richard Bertram, and by extension his bunny, Coco, finding out about the theft. Mark them off, though with an asterisk.

Larry Beck. His whereabouts were confirmed by Nikki. However, she was only one voice, and people forget the mundane like a few minutes' disappearance. Hell, do you remember what your spouse did every moment of last evening? And he'd gone radio-silent. He wasn't the frontrunner, but he wasn't out of it.

I looked at the emerging threads of pattern.

First place went to the one who'd run, the one who was fed up with her life and desperate. The one whom nobody's story accounted for ... for ...

For how long, Harry?

I realized I hadn't asked that question. But Sasha had taken a shot at me by hinting that I couldn't measure up to Jordan's stamina. Sydney had said Richard and Coco came in after Anders left. It wasn't just a few minutes that no one had eyes on Kimi.

She was in first place. The only question was if she was alone in it. Maybe so, but Jordan didn't believe any of the women knew about the certificates.

An accomplice? I talked myself into it. Anders's presence hinted at a man with deep reserves of decisiveness and nerve. Plus, he'd left Sydney and not entered anyone else's story after. And Mitchell ... Mitchell had the balls for just about anything. We didn't see him for half the evening either. I decided they were accomplices or tied for second on the Likely Guilty list.

Just about then, another realization hit me. I was standing on the streets of New York City like a tourist. Dusk was coming. I had two-plus-a-bit ryes in me. And I was a target.

I was a fucking idiot.

I ducked back inside. "William, I had slightly too much and shouldn't be driving. Can you call me a cab?"

"Of course, sir."

I checked my voicemail when I got to my apartment. That was right after I checked my apartment to see if anyone had been in it. No, the telltale on the door and fire escape windows were untouched.

"Mr. Morgan, this is Detective Murray. Why don't you give me a call if you get this before, say, six o'clock. If not, call me tomorrow."

I called the number he left but it went to official voicemail. I guess I didn't rate the personal cell phone number.

There was also a message from Jess.

"Hey, I found some stuff. Where are you? Call me."

A second from her. "Jesus, Harry, you better not be shacked up somewhere while I'm working my fingers to the bone. I'm going out with friends, so don't call me tonight, but you better show up tomorrow."

The fact that the woman I'd been shacked up with wasn't the one she was picturing didn't make me feel any less guilty. I wrote myself an excuse note: Please excuse Harry Morgan. He was shot at.

I called Uncle Jimmy.

"She make it?"

"Yeah. She seems like a nice girl."

I laughed. I knew what he really meant was, "She's a stone-cold fox." Uncle Jimmy was a bachelor, but Uncle Jimmy wasn't dead, and more than once I'd visited to find one of the widows in his neighborhood over for barbecue.

"She's right there, isn't she?"

"Yep."

"Put her on."

"Everything go all right at the station?" I asked when she came on.

"Yeah. Did you get my clothes?"

"Yeah. I was going to run them out, but I've had a little too much to drink. Tomorrow okay?"

"I see." The tone said a lot.

"What?" I asked.

"I figured."

She knew? Did Nikki call her? No, Sydney didn't have a phone with her. "Umm ..."

"It's okay. Think about what I told you when you dropped me off. I'll see you tomorrow and we can talk."

I wasn't hammered, but I wasn't entirely sober. Talking later was definitely a better strategy.

At seven in the morning, with the sun just barely starting to beat the streetlights, the phone rang.

"Harry," Jess said, "check the daily blotter of the Post." She gave me shit constantly about the paper I read. I'd have to remember to give some of it back since apparently she did too.

I flipped on the computer and logged onto their site.

"Local Businessman Slain"

I clicked on the link.

"Yesterday evening, two men were found slain gangland style in a lot undergoing construction on 3rd Street between Avenues B and C. One has been identified as local businessman Charles Dunham Everett, the proprietor of Everett Silks. The second man's identity has been withheld pending notification of next of kin. Residents of the area say ..."

My eyes scanned down.

"We are not releasing details at the moment," the detective said, "but the killings were consistent with something other than a robbery gone bad as there are no signs of a struggle. We urge ..."

The "gangland" was some reporter jumping to conclusions and choosing hyperbole to make it sound good. I doubt the police put that label on it. But I jumped to a few conclusions from the officer's words myself. "Something other than robbery" might be "small caliber with a suppressor right here" and a tap to the base of the skull. Mitchell's style. He'd said he had someplace to be.

Something told me humpday was going to be a long one, starting with a dead body I just happened to abandon in Client Number Two's home.